


A Change in the Weather

by lucylikestowrite



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: AU, F/F, I'll add more characters as they appear - Freeform, attempting another multi-chapter fic, except this time with little or no idea of where it's going, good idea lucy, no shield au, probably, yay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-13 19:10:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2161863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucylikestowrite/pseuds/lucylikestowrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance encounter at a party reserved for the elite of New York's social scene sends two people in a direction that neither of them would have ever imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Change in the Weather

According to her mother, "Everyone was expecting it. The whole city."

According to her mother, "It was just natural progression. You two are meant for each other."

Knowing what she knows, Jemma isn't so sure.

-

They met at MIT, and the similarities were immediately obvious. Both were pursuing their second PhD, in fields not identical but similar enough. Both were British, not quite ex-pats, but the sort of people who already have a First from the third best university in the world, and want a crack at the best. Their backgrounds, though geographically drastically different, were also remarkably alike.

He had grown up in what one would most likely describe as a castle in the Highlands of Scotland, son of Leopold Fitz II, and heir to a ridiculously large technology fortune, while she had grown up in a town house in Mayfair, gifted with the title of 'Lady', which, to a fifteen-year-old Jemma Marie Smith-Simmons merely served the purpose of causing her to tell everyone she met that no, she wasn't related to the Queen, and no, she couldn't get you Prince Harry's phone number.

They quickly bonded, and one year into their respective courses, it was obvious to everyone that theirs was a friendship that was going to last.

But, just before they graduated, they decided to date. From both perspectives, it seemed like a good idea. From everyone's perspective. They already knew everything about each other, so there would be no surprises; they knew that they had common interests; they even already loved each other. It became pretty clear very quickly that it wasn't working. If you asked them, even now, they probably wouldn't have much to say about why it didn't, except - "we didn't care enough." Neither of them seemed that bothered about making romance work, it was obvious to both of them that being friends was better.

And then their parents started hinting. Simmons' mother was running for some political seat somewhere, having followed her daughter to the US, and wanted a full family to attract voters. Fitz's father was worried about who would inherit the family business. As they got closer and closer to breaking up, the hints came faster and stronger, until the last thing you could call them was subtle. Simmons was versed on the many benefits a married woman experiences. Fitz was told that if he found himself a spouse,not only could he expect an increase in shares in the company he owned, but that a significant amount of money could be donated to some of his favourite charities.

It was clear that their families wanted them to make it official. When they'd left university, they'd moved to New York together, and for some reason, they were the city's biggest talking point.They were 'New York's Very Own Royals' - no matter how many times Fitz told journalists that he wasn't even titled, and Simmons insisted that, strictly, she didn't count as a royal.

Both of them could see why their parents wanted it so much. The press would focus on their families more than ever before. The publicity that each family needed would be provided. But they wanted to break up. It wasn't working. And so Fitz was understandably shocked when Simmons proposed. Or rather, she went out on a very long walk very early one Sunday morning in April, and when she returned, said, "let's get married."

It seemed like a bad idea, but after the shock wore off, and Fitz thought about it, he was also on board. They both cared about making their families happy, they liked each other, and neither thought they particularly cared about romance.

And so they got engaged. Fitz bought her a suitably large ring, New York reacted suitably excitedly, and their parents arranged a, frankly, larger than expected engagement party.

-

Jemma isn't entirely sure that she knows anyone here. It is her engagement (even if it was a sham engagement), so surely she should be allowed the respite of a friendly face. Fitz had been whisked away the moment they'd set foot inside, and she'd been pulled in a completely different direction. Large social events scared her, and events where she was the centre of attention scared her even more. When she was scared, she tended to babble, which was never good, and when she started babbling, she could usually rely on Fitz to start talking over her, but he wasn't here, and she was having to work very hard not to use the readily available champagne as a replacement.

It was all too much. When her mother had said they wanted to celebrate, she had pictured something a little smaller. Unfortunately, her parents liked spending money almost as much as they liked publicity. Which was a lot. And so when whoever she was talking to - they were almost all old and white and male and all seemed to blend together - moves away, she takes her chance and escapes through the nearest door she can see.

For a second she's disorientated, but then she realises she's back in the cloakroom, or at least the New York version of a cloakroom, everything softly lit and suede, with rows upon rows of closets meticulously organised so that each and every one of the many guests could find their ridiculously expensive coats with ease.

She's relieved to be alone at last. That is, until she notices the girl, previously partially hidden behind one of the pieces of furniture dotted around the room, that seem to say, "This is like home, but more expensive. And with more beige."

The girl in question hasn't noticed her, probably because she seems to be engrossed in the phone she has in her hand.

"Um, hey."

"I've clocked out!"

"What?" She finally looks up, and a look of relief passes over her face. "Oh, phew. I thought you were my boss. I'm not meant to be out here. If anyone came, I was gonna hide in one of the closets, but right now I'm right in the middle of a-" she trails off. "I probably shouldn't tell you that."

"And so I also shouldn't ask you why you're out here, and not in there, catering? Because that's where you're meant to be, right?"

"You noticed," she says, grimacing down at her outfit. "Totally cute, right? They told me that they usually just use their own company clothes, but apparently the hostess was insistent we wear the exact uniform she designed."

Jemma knows. Her mother had spent weeks agonising over about a thousand different colours, clothing styles and fabrics, and had eventually decided on something, that to Jemma's eyes looked remarkably similar to the original, but was apparently "completely different, to anyone with half an idea about these things".

"Yep," she says, and then pauses. She could tell this girl why she knows, but currently they're both anonymous, and she thinks she likes it that way. "There's a lot of you guys out there. An army of caterers, if you will."

The girl half-smiles, but then her phone beeps and she glances back down. Silence fills the air, but not uncomfortably, and Jemma slides down the wall - with difficulty, the dress her mother having chosen being both scarily expensive and worryingly tight - to sit to her, grateful for the respite.

Jemma isn't sure how long she sits there, listening to the girl tapping at her phone, and as she starts to wonder whether anyone was missing her yet, the girl looks up, pushing the phone into a pocket that really isn't big enough.

"There's someone coming."

"How can you tell?"

"Did you, like, fall asleep there? The door round the corner just opened. We have 20 seconds max."

"Oh. Right. What are we going to do?"

"Well, I was going to use my expert hiding place. I really can't get found. I need to be out here at least 45 minutes more. You can stay out here, I guess. You're allowed to be here."

Jemma knows that whoever it is will probably question why the bride is out in the cloakroom alone. She shakes her head. "I don't like confrontation."

The girl's smiling properly now, and then she's grabbing Jemma's hand, and whisking her inside the closet behind them. Which proves to be a problem when Jemma trips over the hem of her ridiculous dress. A hand whips to her hip, steadying her, and when she opens her mouth to thank her, there's a hand over her mouth as well. As her eyes adjust to the semi-darkness, she can she the girl making eye movements at the slats in the door. The intruder, whoever they are, has sat down three metres from the closet.

They move backwards in the surprisingly spacious closet, and while the girl removed the hand over her mouth as soon as she saw Jemma had the message, the other hand lingered a second. Jemma pretends not to notice.

"Well. You followed me into a closet. I guess I can trust you not to rat me out to the hotel," she says, so quietly Jemma can hardly hear her. "I don't really work for catering. This is one night thing. My line of work... it doesn't pay so well. In fact it doesn't pay at all. My friends call us 'hacktivists' but I'm still not so sure about that. Essentially, I'm a hacker, and occasionally I need some cash flow to keep me fed."

"So you come to a hotel? Couldn't you just... hack a bank?" For a self-confessed Good Girl, she thinks she handling the 'I'm in a closet with a criminal' thing pretty well.

"Banks tend to be boringly careful with their numbers. Hotels, well, they're a little laxer. Change a couple of numbers, no-one notices. Usually. Plus, this is more fun. You get to meet cool people."

"Cool people?"

"Yeah."

Her eyes have now fully adjusted, and she can see the girl's eyes flicking up and down, and she knows what's coming, and for some reason, she doesn't do anything to stop what happens next. Maybe she just doesn't care that this isn't the sort of thing she does, and when the kiss comes, she definitely doesn't care. She doesn't care. The last few months have drawn out something she got into precisely because she didn't care enough, and now she's sure it was a mistake. What's there to lose? Her mother's approval? Her father's money? Fitz's...

She backs away so fast she slams into the wall behind her, almost knocking her breath away, and then mainlines it out of the closet. Thankfully, whoever was there before isn't any more, but before she can get far there's a hand on her wrist.

"What the hell was that?"

Jemma holds up her left hand.

"You're engaged?" she says it incredulously, like she's having a hard time believing it.

"Yes. And this is an engagement party."

"I know, I'm working it. What does that have to do with-" she breaks off. "It's your engagement party? You're kissing me in a closet at your own engagement party? Isn't your fiancée missing you?"

"Probably. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. This shouldn't have happened. I need to get back," she says, and backs away, then turns and nearly runs through the doors she know lead back into the ballroom.

As she enters the room, she knows that she looks utterly flustered, and she's relieved to notice that almost everyone in the room is turned towards a cluster of people in the far corner.

She later finds out that her second cousin had just introduced the woman she'd brought with her as her girlfriend. She only just manages to keep a straight face when her mother tells her that that makes Esme the first 'one of them' that she knows. Whether she's stopping herself from laughing or crying she's not sure, but very time her mind drifts, she's back in the closet, and although she knows that absolutely this should be the end of it all, she knows that it isn't.

**Author's Note:**

> I have at least the whole next chapter and some of chapter three planned, soooo hopefully that works out.


End file.
